


marshland trysts and tavern nights

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Dirty Mouth, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Very Little Plot, Porn with Feelings, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, implied exhibitionism, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The glint in the witcher’s eyes is so insanely teasing in a way Jaskier would never be able to word properly into a ballad of cocks and kisses even if he tried. When Geralt grins up at him, he’s the spit and fucking image of the type of men that his mother always warned him of when he was younger, but he takes no heed to this particular warning, and dives head first into the ocean that is Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 402





	marshland trysts and tavern nights

Fingers traveling the length of old scars, healed ages back, yet carry the reminder of how they came into existence.

Jaskier maps them hesitantly, curious, always in search of a story, but not pushing. For once, he’s silent, nothing but the crackling of their campfire and the howl of the wind audible in the calm night. He’s quite spent, tired from their… marshland tryst, so to speak, and he’s thankful for the warmth of a body next to his.

“How is it that we never fuck in a real bed?” He wonders aloud, not halting in his exploration of his lover’s chest. Geralt grunts, a common response from the witcher of little words, though the tone of his voice is the one that means he’s listening. With a pull of his arm, Geralt adjusts slightly so Jaskier could see more of his face; a little action to show he cares enough to hear the bard out.

“Think about it. Have we ever done this in a real bed, mattress and headboard, the lot of it?” Jaskier continues, peering into hawk-like eyes. “Not that I’m complaining— there’s a sweetness to making love in the presence of untouched nature, believe me— but I’m curious as to why we never do this in, say, an inn.” He says, hand subconsciously massaging Geralt’s chest, an action the other welcomes with ease.

Geralt mulls over his response for a short moment. “You’re too loud. You’d sooner wake the rest of the inn than the ruckus of the tavern below it.” He says, running the hand holding Jaskier to him against the small of his back. There’s a teasing tone to his voice, something the bard picks up on easily like it were his lute.

“I don’t think I’m that loud!”

“You are, much more than you think,” Geralt says, flipping them so that he was on top of Jaskier. He grins with resolve, flashing his teeth before he sinks further into their bedroll, white hair disappearing under the fabric. “Especially when I do this.”

“Now that’s just not fa-a- _ah!”_

  
  
  


They ride into a town a few days later, mostly to restock on supplies for the road ahead, but the noticeboard of the town is quite crowded by flyers. There are eight pinned to it, which is a feat for a town so seemingly out of the way from most of the larger cities of Velen.

Geralt quickly realises why. The noticeboard is simply full of various petty squabbles and notices from Novigrad from four years ago. It’s not often they stumble upon a town so untouched by the war and monsters lurking about. He sensed the presence of various types of monsters deep in the woods, but as it turns out, the townsfolk are set in their ways of never venturing further than their land.

“Quaint town, isn’t it?” Jaskier quips, which is a welcome surprise, if he might say so himself. He can’t deny the allure of adventure and the desire to compose ballads describing said adventures, but he’s still just a man, and even the strongest of men required a day of quiet and rest. Geralt seems like he doesn’t, but then again, he was no mere man. “It’s not often we get to stop by a town and not have the need to do something. We should stay a night; my back misses the warm embrace of a bed.” He says, making a dramatic action of rubbing his behind. Geralt smiles, fond in a way he’s irritated at himself for being, but it was better than the emotional constipation (as Jaskier so lovingly calls it) he’s used to from years of traveling alone.

“That’s not so bad an idea.” He replies, not even needing to glance at Jaskier to know the man was pleased at his response.

It’s dark by the time they make it to the inn (which took them quite a while to find, considering that almost  _ every _ home looked the same), and Jaskier is more than happy to know they’d be staying for the night. Traveling across the Continent isn’t as enjoyable as it is without Geralt, and he cherishes the various memories he’s made on the road, but nothing will beat the hearth of a tavern bustling with people ready to hear his songs, the hot water of a bath, and the comfort of a mattress instead of veiled dirt against his back.

Jaskier glances at Geralt before they enter the inn. A part of him still wonders how he was so fortunate to meet the witcher so many years back, to know him without the same walls he has up against others, to be able to talk to him and touch him and love him in a way he knows he could never allow anyone else to do. The prickly, cold witcher that many loathe and many more fear; teasing and warm when it was just the two of them.

The inn is quiet, much like the rest of the town. There’s a bar and a few seats, and the innkeeper yawns as he looks up towards them. Surprisingly, the innkeeper doesn’t glare at them and tell them to fuck off to the next town. Jaskier hopes it was because tales of the witcher’s adventures have spread enough that towns won’t treat them with so much disdain, but he doesn’t hold out hope.

“We need a room for tonight, along with food and drink.” Geralt lists, dropping a purse of coins onto the countertop. The innkeeper takes it with steady hands; either he’s unaware who he deals with, or he’s seen worse monsters than the golden eyed mutant in front of him. 

“Got one room left, if ya don’t mind sharin’ with yer friend,” The innkeeper says, though he seems to direct his last words to Jaskier. He points to the stairs next to the counter. “That’ll be the room at the end of the hallway, to the right.”

Geralt grunts in affirmation, turning towards the stairs and making his way up. Jaskier politely thanks the innkeeper, grateful that his mother, rest her soul, had instilled enough manners into him. He quickly follows after Geralt, trudging up the rickety stairs and finding the door only opened by inches.

“You know, it would do you favours to-” But his words are cut off when Geralt kisses him, an action he’s familiar with but always floored by. The train of thought he had is derailed almost instantly as he practically becomes mush, humming in contentedness as the kiss deepens. The door shuts behind him, and only realises he’s being led to the bed in the corner of the room when they reach their destination.

“What’s all this, then?” He asks softly when they part, out of breath, and yet, wanting more. Geralt, as usual, doesn’t use many words, choosing instead to express what he wants simply by  _ doing so _ . He ends up seated on the bed, and  _ fuck _ if it isn’t doing things to both his cock and his mind when he realises that Geralt’s doing  _ exactly  _ as he said he wanted that night at the marshes.

The witcher kneels in front of him, takes his cock in hand, and while looking Jaskier in the eyes, licks a stripe from the base of his cock to the head, eliciting a sweet moan from him. He believes Geralt has an oral fixation of sorts; it doesn’t happen often that they fuck without his mouth on Jaskier’s cock or ass at some point, or licking and marking and sucking on various parts of his exposed skin, but he’s never seen reason to complain. Geralt takes him in his mouth again, sucking the head all wet-like, and has the audacity to shush him when he moans at the sensation.

“The walls are thin, Jaskier,” Geralt hums, teasing him with his tongue against his leaking length. “You’d do best to stay quiet, or they’ll hear how you moan like a whore.” He rumbles, voice raspy in the way he knows Jaskier loves. Silent for once, Jaskier frantically nods, eyes glancing at the door that Geralt’s seems to have left unlocked. The realisation makes him harder, if that were possible; a fact that Geralt notices and runs with. “You wouldn’t want anyone walking in, would you? Stumbling into our room, wondering what’s all the racket about..” He continues, kissing Jaskier’s cock from the bottom till the top. “Seeing you with your face against the pillows while I fuck your pretty little ass into the mattress. That what you want?”

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier rushes out, rutting into Geralt’s unrelenting mouth, from both his words and the wet heat wrapping and unwrapping around his cock. His fingers have found their way into the witcher’s hair, tugging at white strands like they were a lifeline to keep from sinking into a fucked out mess. “Please, just fuck me already!”

The glint in the witcher’s eyes is so insanely teasing in a way Jaskier would never be able to word properly into a ballad of cocks and kisses even if he tried. When Geralt grins up at him, he’s the  _ spit and fucking image _ of the type of men that his mother always warned him of when he was younger, but he takes no heed to this particular warning, and dives head first into the ocean that is Geralt of Rivia.

Eventually, he stops teasing Jaskier, unable to ignore his own pent up desire any longer. He gets up from his knees, kissing his bard, who kisses back with so much heart he almost,  _ almost _ , doesn’t want to stop. When they part, they’re both hurriedly removing their clothes, the cold seeping through the wooden walls and embracing their skin. Geralt, despite he and Jaskier both hard as rocks, gets between Jaskier’s legs and kisses at his chest, licking one nipple and playing with the other with his hand. Jaskier holds back a whine, the noise muffled by his arm covering mouth. When Geralt looks up towards his lover, his cheeks are red and his pupils are blown wide.

“If you’re not going to fuck me, Geralt, I swear to the gods—”

So he does. Reaching for the oil he placed on the nightstand when he came into the room, he takes off the lid and scoops a fair amount, the oil warming in his fingers as he leans down to kiss Jaskier, then pressing a finger into his hole. The moan Jaskier almost lets out is lost in Geralt’s mouth, but the other ones aren’t so fortunate. Geralt focuses on stretching Jaskier wide enough so that the burn of sliding in isn’t more than dull pain to the bard, but he’s having none of it; before long, Jaskier’s rushing him to move faster, quietly whispered  _ ‘more, more, more’ _ spilling out of his kiss red lips. He slips a second finger in, faster like was requested (because if there was something he’d never admit, it was that Jaskier had too easy of an influence on him), and soon a third finger, to which he curls his fingers inward and rubs the spot that gets Jaskier whining and whimpering under him.

Jaskier breaks the kiss, breathless and looking utterly fucking debauched, saying, “Fuck me, gods, just fuck me, please,” And Geralt can’t prolong this any longer. Before long, he’s scooping more oil and lathing his neglected cock in it, then lining the tip against Jaskier’s hole, and pushing in. The both of them groan, one lower than the other, as Geralt buries himself to the hilt in Jaskier’s ass. He starts thrusting in and out, but his pace is far too slow for Jaskier, his cock beet red and wet and curving against his stomach, so he takes matters into his own hands.

When he slides himself off of Geralt, missing the fullness of his ass while he’s at it, and flips them around, he knows he’s wrested control from the witcher. He takes hold of Geralt’s cock, oiled generously and  _ weeping _ , lines it up to his puckered hole, and sinks down. He breaks skin biting his lip in an effort to be quiet, and Geralt’s guttural moan is a reminder why he’s currently the one on top. There’s remarkably more difficulty finding the spot that has sparks shoot up his spine, but if Geralt has any problems with his constant shifting to find that spot, he doesn’t say anything.

“Ah!” He cries out, the part of him telling him to be quiet overridden by the rest of him chasing after that feeling again. Geralt groans along with him, hands on Jaskier’s hips as the man builds a pace until he’s bouncing, his lover meeting him halfway and fucking up into him like everything depended on it.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Geralt encourages, though his tongue feels lax and his body feels  _ burning _ . He brings Jaskier down towards him, kissing him hard as their pace becomes more erratic and they fall off pace, becoming more desperate as they both tried to chase their orgasms. It feels like a race to the finish line with the both of them, but in the end, it’s Jaskier that finishes first.

He cries out Geralt’s name, back arching as his cock spends itself, like a dam that’s been broken. He strokes his cock to empty himself out, moaning wantonly with each stroke as Geralt picks up a brutal pace, thrusting up into Jaskier with abandon. It’s when Jaskier whispers a litany of ‘yes’s and moans from oversensitivity against his jaw that he releases into him, hands shooting up towards his waist and stroking as he buries himself in Jaskier’s ass.

They’re both panting heavily, the sweat and release sticking to their skin and growing cold at an uncomfortably fast rate. Jaskier slides off slowly, face contorting at the discomfort at the sensation, like a bottle losing it’s cork, cum dribbling out of his ass to his thighs when he’s upright for too long above Geralt, who quickly pulls him down. The witcher kisses his bard, all soft and languid like, pouring his heart into it and conveying all of his contentment, Jaskier gladly reciprocating his affections.

When they part, Geralt’s the first to speak. “I told you you would be too loud,” He murmurs teasingly, a smug smile on his lips as his brain helpfully supplies Jaskier’s reactions. He thinks it’s enough to get his cock filling out again, but he knows his witcher stamina compared to a human’s stamina— they need a bit of time to recuperate before going again.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault! You were the one that started this!” Jaskier argues, but he still intertwines his legs with Geralt’s and slots himself into his space, head laying on his shoulder and arm splayed out on his chest. He looks up at Geralt, poking at his chin when he talks. “If you  _ really _ wanted me quiet, you would’ve gone to further lengths to do so.” He points out, before dropping his hand to his witcher’s chest. “There are many more effective ways to keep me quiet than just  _ telling _ me to do so.”

“I know, I know,” Geralt rumbles, and laughs— genuinely laughs, with crinkles in his eyes and his true smile coming out. There’s a flutter in Jaskier’s chest knowing he’s the only one able to see this. “Many more  _ simpler  _ ways, too. How do you feel about something stuffing your mouth? In more ways than one.”

“You insatiable dog,” Jaskier mutters back in reply, but he’s smiling too. He places his hand against Geralt’s cheek, locking eyes with him before they both move in for a kiss, sweet like berries and soft like cotton.

Fingers travel along other scars, but Jaskier’s attention is solely on the man that bears them.


End file.
